


X-Ecutioner Style

by Aeacus



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood and Gore, Decapitation, Fluff, Gen, Temporary Character Death, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 21:25:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7137839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aeacus/pseuds/Aeacus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cutting your head off once is crazy happenstance. Doing it a second time and it still not sticking is pure dumb luck. Doing it more after that is insane. But you’re not going to let titles stop you from getting your release.</p>
            </blockquote>





	X-Ecutioner Style

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Decapitation is the main theme here. So lots of death and gore in a very odd setting. Please don’t read if triggered or squicked.
> 
> Note: I also switch character perspectives at the lines, without introductions.

Technically it could be a fetish, you suppose. 

Not in a very strict definition of the word. The top three being 1) ‘a form of sexual desire in which gratification is linked to an abnormal degree to a particular object, item of clothing, part of the body, etc’, 2) ‘an inanimate object worshiped for its supposed magical powers or because it is considered to be inhabited by a spirit’, and 3) ‘a course of action to which one has an excessive and irrational commitment.’ But if you combine the first and third, you get something in the vicinity of what you do and why.

It’s not about sex. Or at least not about dick in any case. You could make and have made the argument that sex isn’t about the penis or vagina or respective genitalia that may or may not be involved. It’s about the release in the end. The chemical cocktail of endorphins that accompany an orgasm. Of course sex doesn’t even have to involve that. And you’re not sure if what you do technically involves that. It might be a helluva lot more metaphorical than that.

But that’s what you do. You take things and complicate them up into a ball of bullshit that no one could possibly hope to untangle enough to even point out ‘There, there is where the bullshit all started’. At this point complicating things is a hobby for you.

Which is kinda what this other activity is turning into as well. 

It’s always on the back of your mind as you figure out ways to make it better, easier, less of a mess, less... freaky. Not that you want to bring anyone into this madness. You’re pretty sure that something like this deserves an intervention. It’s certainly not healthy to deal with the stress of life by cutting off your own head.

Whoops. 

Though now that the metaphorical cat is out of the bag, you don’t have to dance around the concept in front of your hypothetical audience anymore. What a relief. You can just straight up admit that you regularly cut off your head. You’ve gotten so casual about it that it’s on the same level as wanking off or cracking open a cold beer or lighting up a toke, except none of those do anything for you anymore. Not even your marathon long showers clear your head as well as taking your head clear off. 

Okay, it’s not like you do it every day or anything. Just when the buzzing in the back of your head builds up past the point of tolerance and nothing else remotely touches it so you just need that hard reset. That little death that sets everything back to zero. That moment when there is nothing but absolute silence. When you come back, there is no pain, no buzzing. Just a blank slate for you to carefully re-organize your mind; into whichever arrangement suits you best at present. 

The process has evolved to the point of being easy. In fact, it’s gotten a little clinical. You could probably do it daily if you really needed to. It’s simple to set the spring on the blade then just lay back with the dotted line across your neck and then press the button. Chop, pause, then bright healing light. It’s the perfect machine at this point. 

But now it’s missing something. There is something about the visceral act of decapitation that’s missing. 

Which is why you are currently on Dave’s doorstep, knocking on the door with a request that he’s sure to hate and a logical argument that he’s sure to hate even more.

* * *

 

You regret opening the door when you hear the very dumb words that fall out of Dirk’s mouth. Part of you wants to just slam the door in his face. Part of you wants to refute him. Part of you wants to hear this argument because you know he has one and it’s fascinating to hear the way he twists logic until it sounds so reasonable you wonder why you didn’t think like that in the first place until you think on it later and realize that nope, it’s still all bullshit from the get go. The winning part of you however...

“Sure, man, I’ll chop your head off. No problem.”

Dirk opens his mouth to start spouting off that brilliantly stupid argument before pausing to process what you’ve just said. “Wait.”

“Yeah, no, you heard right. I agreed to it. Come on in and we’ll talk details.” You step away from the door with a sweeping gesture. He’s frozen still for another long moment before stepping inside. The two of you don’t speak again until you have a chilled apple juice in hand and he has an orange soda as your legs hang off the edge of your roof. “So.”

“So.” It’s like he got so caught up in his efforts to convince you to join him in his insanity that he kinda forgot how it’s supposed to go down.

“It’s not going to get weird or anything right?” He gives you a look, an eyebrow arching up over his shades to let you know precisely what look he’s giving you. “I mean extra weird like with boners and shit.”

“Oh. No. Not that weird. It’s kind of like that. The whole ‘little death’ metaphor taken literally. I’m more just after...”

“The release. Like the aftermath of a good shit or popping a pimple.”

“Gross. But yes.”

“When do you want this to go down?”

“Well, I usually only need to do it every two weeks or so, but it’s been getting worse so-”

“Wait.” It takes you a moment to process but thankfully Dirk’s accommodating, choosing to sip on his soda while you think. ‘Every two weeks’ he says so fucking casually like it’s a chore not a temporary suicide. The fact that he’s coming to you means that he doesn’t have someone else which means he’s been doing it himself. “You’re fucked up, dude.”

“Yeah.” He shrugs and drinks more of his soda. Maybe that’s the right idea and you sip at your juice even if you feel a little nauseous. Your entire session was about facing the shit you didn’t like so you’re kinda used to this bullshit. 

“So every two weeks you think? Coming to me is an attempt to keep it that way because masturbation- I mean, self decapitation isn’t quite giving you the same high so it’s time to step it up like a dude trying to get his dick wet with something aside from bedside lotion.”

“Yeah.” He answers it the same exact way.

“Gotcha. Glad we’re on the same page.” You kick your legs out over the emptiness of being seven stories up. You briefly think about asking for a turn just to see how it feels but your roiling gut quickly decides against that for you.

“I’d say I have about a week.”

“Don’t you know the phrases about ripping off a bandaid?”

“Could always skip ahead of schedule.”

“Fuck no, give me some time to prepare for cutting my brother’s head off, asshole.”

“You can say no.”

“I’ve already said yes. And now you’re driving me nuts. A little peace and quiet in the form of you gurgling on your own blood might be nice.”

He doesn’t have a witty quip against that one. It might have been too far but you’re still working through where the line is now because cutting your brother’s head off upon his request left the old line in the dust.

You really don’t bring it up again when the two of you finally retire from the roof for some normal dinner and video games.

* * *

 

You’re at your threshold you realize as you chuck another ruined battle-bot head against the wall hard enough that screws go ricocheting off of the ceiling, floor, and other walls of your workshop. You let out a heavy sigh before closing down all of your equipment. You are actually a little nervous when you pick up the phone and pull up Dave’s contact.

TT: I suppose it’s that time again.   
TG: for   
TG: oh   
TG: nm   
TG: i remember   
TG: yeah come on over   
TT: Thanks. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.   
TG: ill be   
TG: i dont know what ill be except for here   
TG: do i need to put down tarps or towels or a bucket or something   
TT: Nah. The majicks, as Roxy would call them, do their job fairly well.   
TG: well shit thats a pretty neat trick   
TG: why cant my godtier powers be like that when i accidentally put dish soap into the dishwasher instead of the dishwashing liquid i mean they do the same exact thing except one seems very content to just make so many fucking bubbles that they go everywhere and

You set your phone down. You’ll catch up to Dave’s ramble on your way over. You need to change into something appropriate. Do you go with something dark colored that will hide a bit of the gore seeping from your neck or do you go with something light colored and really highlight the effect of the blood staining the front of your shirt then getting sucked back in when you come around? Hmm, choices and decisions. Decisions and choices. You could go for the tacky blood matching red but that’s Dave’s color and it would be weird to show up at his place with that. But style dictates that you should go with white. Nice and simple and show stopping. Plus it will make sure that Dave’s up for a round two if he can handle round one with the white.

You plug in the outfit into your wardrobifier and the clothes you’re wearing shimmer for a second as they change from your oil stained workshop gear into something that looks like you’re up for a rousing game of soccer. Or something. 

You pick up your phone and catch up to Dave now rambling about distribution of household chores between an apartment and a house based on John’s whining. You counter his argument with details of trying to maintain your seabound apartment from corroding and falling into said sea and he tells you that doesn’t count which gives you the perfect opportunity to pass the time arguing while you walk to his place.

You have him agreeing to your bullshit argument by the time you knock on his door. He opens it promptly, looking a little pale. 

“Are you sure about this?” you ask. It's not too late to go back and set up your own machine.

“Of course I’m sure. It’s not like it’s gonna give me nightmares or anything. Just another day in the life of a Strider. Sure. I’m sure.” 

“You know how much I appreciate it.”

“I’m pretty sure I don’t. I don’t really know jack shit about how your twisted fucking mind works but if this helps calm it down for a little while, who exactly am I to pass judgement. I’m not a Lalonde.” He steps aside so you can follow in. There is a tarp on the floor of the living room apparently just in case this goes messy. Which is good. He’s prepared. You see Caledfwlch sitting off to the side. The weapon of your (temporary) execution. You’re pretty sure it’s not supposed to send a tingle of excitement up your spine.

* * *

 

You catch him staring at the sword with a slight hunger on his face. “You’re a freak and I mean that in all the ways that say ‘I love you bro’,” you continue to ramble nervously as you move into the room. You don’t know how this is supposed to go, how it will go. “Are you a hundred and thirty-seven percent sure that this isn’t going to be heroic or just?”

“Nah. I’m definitely not a hero here, just a dude looking for a good time. And I don’t think I’m the villain in this story. You’re not defeating me.”

“Okay, cool. Because you know if you don’t come back, Roxy’s gonna do terrible stuff to me, then pass me off to Jake who will do terrible stuff to me once he stops crying, then hand me off to Jane who will do the worst to me. You understand that right.”

“Do you want me to sign a consenting contract or something?”

“Well now that you mention it...” You pause to think about it while he raises an eyebrow at you. “Do you want something to drink before we begin?”

“Afterwards is usually better.”

“Right. Sore throat and all.” You fiddle around some more while feeling the tension rise. He moves to stand on the tarp, the plastic crinkling under his shoes. “So how does this go?”

“You pick up the sword. Swing at my neck. Don’t fucking miss. Head pops off. I pull a reset. We eat pizza and play shitty video games.”

“Right.”

You pick up the sword because that’s apparently step one. His shoulders drop and his chin tilts up. You know you aren’t fucking with your time powers but it still feels like molasses as you swing at his neck, step two. Of course you don’t fucking miss because that would be hella horrific and you’re pretty sure he didn’t order a massive shoulder injury, just a decaffeinated cappuccino, you mean, decapitation. 

Okay, you might be messing with your time powers a little to watch the blood splatter as it arcs behind your blade like little crimson gems. Of course it's sharp enough that it goes cleanly through but there are still some things that rip instead of slice. You're pretty sure he's not aware of the face he makes as he dies. It's this pained pleasure look mixed with shock. Just for an instant before it starts to go slack with death as it spins away. 

The head bounces with a wet thud at the corner of the tarp before knocking into the front of the couch and rolling back towards where Dirk's body is succumbing to gravity now that the muscles aren't being directed to maintain balance. It doesn't quite land on top of the head but it does make a nice splatter outward from the gaping neck wound onto the plastic of the tarp. The rest of his life blood continues to pump out into a puddle that soaks into his white shirt- why the fuck would he wear white to a murder- as Dirk's heart hasn't gotten the message that his brain doesn't need blood anymore.

It would be very artistic if it wasn't your dead brother on the ground. You try to distract yourself by the idea of submitting this as a performance piece to MOMA. It's not doing a very good job of distracting you as your sword clatters to the ground after slipping out of your weak and shaking hands. You feel hot and cold, sweating and clammy, you feel like your about to throw up but there's nothing in your stomach since you did that when you first got the text. You're not sure you're breathing as you stare at Dirk's parts, waiting for that mystic glow to signal his regeneration. You're violently taken back to the battle where the only out was Dirk's heroic act, where you had to catch his parts to make sure they didn't get disintegrated when the Jacks blew up. The only reason he came back was Jane. You could call Jane. Fuck you should have had Jane on speed dial. Why didn't a future you come back and tell you what a dumb and terrible idea this is oh god-

He begins to glow with that shifting rainbow light of immortality. Every bit of him, even the ripped chunks of flesh and bone and blood that decorate the room. You instantly relax and wait as Dirk is knitted back together, all of the pieces floating and coalescing and fitting together like a puzzle. You use the time to compose yourself again because that wasn't too bad actually. Now that you've started to breathe again. You don't look away until he the glow dies down again. You watch to make sure every piece is used and something's not left behind like one of those screws that is always conspicuously left over after assembling IKEA furniture. 

The glow fades. There is a moment of stillness and you have a second mini panic attack over the thought that maybe the immortality didn't stick and his soul is elsewhere while you have his body here. Then Dirk breathes and his eyes flutter open.

* * *

 

You lay there processing for a little bit. The answer  to one of your robotic processes comes floating to the surface and it seems so obvious in hindsight. A slip ring would keep it free enough for the range of motion necessary without tangling up both  wires and code. And you can build one in your sleep. Cheaper than buying one.

You look over and see Dave standing there looking paler than ever. You didn't think it would be possible to look that pale and not be dead.

“Thanks, bro,” you croak out. Your throat always feels like sandpaper afterwards which is why you have cough drops in your pocket. You don't have time to reach for them yet as your words seem to have spurred Dave to move. He bends down by your side and grabs your arm to pull you up to your feet. You're steady already so you brush his hands away as he tries to support you. You're used to the way the world looks over bright at first and how your balance is overly perfect. You are born anew practically. Except for your throat.

“What can I do now? What do I do?” Dave frets.

“Water,” you remind him even as you slip the cough drops out of your pocket and unwrap one. You start sucking on it as soon as Dave turns his back to scurry to the kitchen. More solutions to the headaches you were having filter through to the forefront of your mind. With your other hand you pull out your notebook and start hitting down notes. 

You're so into being productive that you miss Dave's return until he coughs. You take the water and down it immediately in one go. He looks concerned and about to go get another one when you stop him. 

“I'm good. But get one for yourself as you look like you're about to pass out.”

“I'm probably like three steps past that but okay.”

“Then come to the couch and I'll order pizza.” You're already pulling the phone out of your pocket to open the app. He nods and heads away. You order your freaky favorite that makes Roxy and Jane gag each time they hear of it. You add to your order a much more ordinary pizza for Dave. And a set of cinnamon breadsticks and two sodas. By the time your switching addresses, Dave is perched at the other end of the couch, and that's the best way you can describe how he's sitting on the arm of the couch and looking at you like you've lost your head. “You doing okay?”

“No,” he pouts.

You open your arms and he slides close to you, wrapping around you in one of his rare hugs. You'd feel blessed but you kind of manipulated the situation. “You going to be okay?”

“Probably. Rose would probably start talking about how I can use this scenario to let out any residual angst against Bro by repeatedly killing you. Sometimes it sucks to have a Rose in my head. She'd have comment on that too.”

“You're not going to tell her about this right?”

“Nah. Unless you want me to.”

“Nah. I'm good. I don't really want to be psychoanalyzed.”

“Me neither. So it's our little secret.”

“Yep.” He carefully reaches up and slips his fingers into Dave's hair to start scritching at his scalp. He feels his brother shudder and then relax. “We don't have to do it again.”

“I want to,” Dave says a little quickly. “Now that I know how it works. I wanna try again. Without freaking out.”

“Sure. I'm pretty sure that I'll need it again sooner or later. I'm hoping later actually. I'm hoping that this pushes it out a little. Otherwise I could always go back to my machine.”

“You could. But you shouldn't.”

“Sounds good.” He keeps scritching and Dave keeps melting against you. “Thanks.”

So now you have an outlet. It's a little more special now that you can share it with someone. Though you’re still not sure if it’s technically a fetish or not. 


End file.
